


Welcome to my Life...

by Diddle_Riddle



Series: Scars to your Beautiful [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Although not everything is pain I promise, And I go back cry in my corner, Blood and Injury, Bullying, But Eddie definitely gets hurt more than he laughs, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Gen, I'm gonna cry in a corner, It's Eddie's childhood, Physical Abuse, Poor baby :'(, This is a warning in itself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-01-31 05:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18585031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diddle_Riddle/pseuds/Diddle_Riddle
Summary: Edward closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. One, two...He needed something to distract himself. To that end, he relived a strange yet interesting scene of something that happened today at school. Something he might want to... learn more about.Batman. The name reached his ears for the first time during a conversation he heard between two hysterical pupils, a boy and a girl, talking to each other in a corridor.





	Welcome to my Life...

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song 'Welcome to my Life' by Simple Plan, just because the lyrics describe a young Edward's life so perfectly.

 

The cupboard he used as a step was still at the same spot as he left it yesterday in the bathroom, since he was the last person who used the sink and mirror. At least one good thing, he didn't have to move the furniture, so no extra movements required, those could only add to the existing pain.

Wait... was he really at the point he was _glad_ he didn't have to execute a few extra gestures, and considered himself _lucky_ with the situation?! Because if it was the case, then things were more alarming than he thought.

Edward refrained a sigh as he stepped on the cupboard, turned upside down to allow the back of the furniture to give him access to a flat surface large enough to stand on it, even to spread his feet a little on the step. The spot was not exactly 'comfortable', but it could have been much worse. When he had a fever or was too dizzy after the blows, sometimes standing on the step became a real hardship. But he needed the mirror to treat the damages when they were on his face or his back, it was too difficult to precisely evaluate everything without the crooked glass' participation. When the injuries spread on other parts of his body, even if most of the time he dealt with them in the bathroom, seeing his reflection was not a priority.

And today, as many other days, his reflection looked like _chopped beef_.

The skin around his right eye swelled, in a bruise rapidly forming where the punch had been given. The mark was red for now because due to a new blow, but it will turn blue and purple, and will stay that way for _days_ before the bruised flesh started to slowly recover its normal smooth shape and milky color.

Great, he will _again_ have to skip school to let enough time for the bruise to heal. That will be the fourth time this month.

He gritted his teeth with barely contained anger at the thought. What was that his father failed to understand in 'discretion'?! Besides it was not like his dad didn't hit him... everywhere else as well, so why couldn't he just spare his _face_?! The rest was fine, he could hide the other damages on his body by simply wearing long sleeves and long pants. And he learned since way back to do his make-up to cover the bruises on his face and neck when they didn't look too bad. But black eyes? These were his least favorite, because they were impossible to cover up completely. Even when he managed to make the hurt skin look its original pale shade again, the spot remained _swollen_ , therefore _visible_ , what often attracted unwanted attention.

So yes, he hated black eyes. More than the rest.

And as for said 'rest', well... Right now he had a little something _else_ to take care of.

Eddie unbuttoned his shirt, slowly, forcing his hands to stop shaking. He couldn't operate anything as long as his fingers wobbled that much.

That was another part of what he despised. His body's _reactions_. When being hit, despite his rather long experience now, he never managed to hold back at least one scream by session. When being insulted, by his father and his bullies alike, even when he tried to act strong and not give them the satisfaction to see him breaking down, the words always had a strong, way _too_ strong, way too _deep_ impact on his mind, and he always ended up crying alone in a corner while they echoed in his brain. Useless. Pathetic. Weak. Faggot. Moron. Cheater...

Stop!, he ordered himself, his whole body shaking now.

He needed to calm down in order to treat the injuries on his left side. He had to _control_ his movements, so to stop shuddering and focus on the task. And right now, all he managed to do was to stress himself even more.

Edward closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. One, two...

He needed something to distract himself. To that end, he relived a strange yet interesting scene of something that happened today at school. Something he might want to... learn more about.

Batman. The name reached his ears for the first time during a conversation he heard between two hysterical pupils, a boy and a girl, talking to each other in a corridor. One was apparently born Gothamite, and proudly claimed that the hero from her birth town arrested the 'Joker' and put him back in 'Arkham' once again.

Edward may had no idea what this was about, he stopped on his way to class. The curiosity of whenever he caught a glimpse of something potentially interesting raised in his organism, and he discreetly stayed close enough to listen to what they were saying without drawing attention, he pretented to be concentrated on the book he just opened, as if he was in another world while reading. Not that anyone noticed his presence right now, though.

"How come there is a man dressed as a bat in Gotham", the boy asked "and we aren't talking about it here?! I saw the new video, you know when he did that flip with... what's her name again..."

"Which one?", the girl inquired. "Give me a clue, I'll remember who it is."

"The one who looks like a panther. There was a scene, I swear it looked like an action movie! They were both like... flying together at one moment, but they were fighting, and there was action and stuff..."

"That's Catwoman!", she exclaimed excitedly. "The first time somebody talked about her was last month, she's new in the ship! Until then we had Batman, Joker, and Poison Ivy, but now there is Catwoman! She looks so cool!"

"Oh yeah, Poison Ivy, that's the green one! I saw a bit about her, she seems scary as Hell."

"And dangerous! Her, Joker and Batman, they have the top spot of crazy things happening in Gotham! I miss home...", she regretted on a weaker tone. "I wish more people here knew about all that..."

Her friend cheered her up, and their conversation, from slightly chaotic –typical from eleven years old children–, went to utterly _boring_ , so Edward began to move and walked to his class.

But the names stayed logged in his head, and he knew he had something to look at next time he'll have access to a computer.

Coming back to the present, Edward met again his light green gaze in the mirror. With his left eye looking perfectly fine and his right one circled with angry red, it looked like he was watching a distorting mirror that would cut his skull symmetrically, dividing it in two halves, a normal one and a deformed one. If the sight had been infrequent, maybe he would have find this amusing –he had a strange sense of humor sometimes–, and would say it looked like a two-faced mask he should wear for Halloween. But he saw his face in a similar state so often, with so many variations of injuries that kind over the years, he didn't feel anything about the image of it anymore.

The only thing bothering him was how to _cover_ it, how to keep pretending everything was normal, both to himself and to others.

He quickly finished to take his ruined shirt off, torn at various spots where his father grabbed him, and soaked with drying blood at the level of his left flank. Trying not to pay too much attention to the ruined cloth, Edward put it on the rusty towel rail nearby.

The few days old wound on his shoulder healed appropriately, soon he won't need to disinfect it anymore and the dark red, rough crust will evolve into the faded pink and smoother skin of when an injury becomes a scar. It was large, and it won't disappear. He learned for some time to distinguish the wounds what seemed serious yet faded away completely when they healed, from the ones that will forever brand his body. This second category hurt more, and needed more aftercare to limit the damages afterwards, to make sure they scarred in the way that would... be the less ugly possible. He wasn't even asking for more, he just tried to limit the scarring at the bare necessity, by stitching himself the best he could and circumspectly sanitizing the wounds to avoid infections or further complications to the damaged areas.

So they scarred, they fossilized themselves on his flesh, as a permanent reminder of what happened the day he got each of them. Not that Ed needed more souvenirs others than the vivid, harsh memories of some scenes involving his parents or his tormentors.

Most scars were from his father... almost _all_ of them were, actually. His bullies punched him, but blows were not wounds, so those faded and disappeared.

Edward finally looked down to the injury he needed to be careful with today.

By thinking, if not of totally _something else_ , but at least... not this particular pain, he managed to relax enough to be now in convenient conditions to make his diagnosis, disinfecting, stitching and bandaging with precise, calculated gestures.

But being in control again of his faculties didn't mean the sight was in no way more pleasant, and he winced a bit at the view.

His father had been in a very bad mood tonight. Drunk, angry, in need of something to hurt. And he took hold of the bottle he emptied earlier at some point during this session.

Maybe it was not the black eyes Edward hated the most, in the end.

Maybe it was the wounds involving shattered glass.

This one was not the first one, though, far from it, so he didn't feel the panic that used to take over him the first times he had to deal with this particularly tricky kind of injuries.

Instead he put himself on 'autopilot', and opened the cupboards fixed on the wall on both sides of the cracked mirror.

His gestures became automatic, typical of habits.

Sometimes, he wondered what other children his age had for 'habits' of this kind, what were the movements they could repeat without thinking about it because they became so usual for them to perform. What their routine belonging to this type must be like? Perhaps it was linked to garden for kids who loved plants or had parents working in the area. Maybe it reached literature, or science, for children who had a passion and practiced daily. These specialities applied to any kind of activity, he realized, like music, dance, drawing, various kind of sports...

Edward's 'speciality' was injuries.

 _Treating_ injuries.

He just finished to roll a new band of clean cloth he kept for this use around the piece of wood he found a while ago, which was the suitable size and solidity. His homemade gag finished, he placed it between his lips, the wood and parts of the fabric showing from the corners of his mouth, and he bit on it, delicately for now, just appreciating the chewy yet resistant aspect. He knew he will bite on it harder during the operation, but for now he simply secured the object between his teeth.

His hands washed with alcohol, from the liquid he kept in the bathroom for medical use, he then plunged one of the tweezers in the whiskey.

Small advantage of living with an alcoholic: the stock of booze being always filled, he could disinfect generously his every wounds, he never ran out of supply. Yes it was a _very_ 'small' advantage, and... kinda depressing to see this as an avantage to begin with, Ed was aware of his poor choice of words.

He refrained another sigh.

And bit the gag when he let alcohol flow on the large portion of damaged skin. This time the treatment contained whisky. Whisky was... good, in the sense that it was powerful and therefore way _better_ to disinfect than when he had to cope with wine or even... beer, as it happened once when he had no other option. When he thought of it, his consumption of alcohol (although he never ingested a sip of it) was _impressive_ if he summed the quantity of liquid he used to disinfect over the years. Again, he was aware of how that sounded. _Depressing_.

Right now however, he was not self-pitying, but rather focused on fulfilling the task at hand.

The wound cleaned, he took a closer look to determine the following steps required to treat it.

The first one was the hardest one: collect the shattered glass.

The sterilized tweezers in hand, he carefully moved to the bigger sliver, took hold of it between the jaws of the tweezers, clamped the two parts of the utensil then pulled a little to remove it. He bit on his gag when the shrapnel came out, and posed it on the edge of the sink, this translucent piece with sharp edges that was tinted with blood.

The first one is always the most difficult.

The rest is just a logical continuation. Just like in science, it was far easier to continue a mathematical series by repeating the same process, than to find out its starting point, and way harder to understand the _reason why_ it began at some moment, and why it angled one way and not another.

Sixteen removed splinters of glass later, most of them being minuscule shards barely visible, and after a close examination, Edward validated the step as achieved, and washed his hands to get rid of the blood then took his gag off. His first times with shattered glass, and despite his thorough verification every time, he forgot one, sometimes few, minuscule shrapnels. So he had to re-open the stitches to take the forgotten slivers out before sewing the flesh back again. Needless to say, that was _not_ something he wanted to _ever_ re-experience.

But he was a quick study. He made a few mistakes while treating his injuries here and there, but once he made these, and _corrected_ them completely (no more shattered glass, even microscopic splinters, left anywhere in his organism, this was no speculation but _reality_ , he attested it and knew he was right about that), he _learned_ from the experience.

No repeated mistakes. He may have done some the first times, in various subjects, once he seriously worked on it, he was able to _master_ the area and not reiterate previous flaws.

The cuts, coming from the bottle shattering and his father who kept hitting him with it while he curled up on a ball and vainly tried to shield himself to avoid further damage, belonged to the _scars_ field, he had no doubt as he took hold of a needle and thread from his sewing kit. The needle profited of its bath of whisky before anything else, then he began to sew.

The stitches were part of the routine almost as much as the disinfection, even if of course he much preferred when his wounds didn't require stiches and could do with only bandages. Despite his experience, he still was uncomfortable with the sensation, and he didn't think he would ever get used to the feeling of piercing his skin multiple times to bridge both sides of a cut, before concluding the movement by a final knot skilfully executed.

Learning how to do the knots was something he dedicated himself to very young, and he could perform any with his eyes closed by now.

One learns from experience.

The stitches were very visible on the damaged flesh, he let apparent the black thread on the edges of the cuts. But he much preferred keeping the stitches neat and apparent, it helped better and quicker scarring, rather than trying to be discreet in the sewing and ending up with a scar larger than it would have been with solid, strong stitches. Furthermore, the hurt spot was his _flank_ , so his shirts covered it completely, no need to be secretive here.

When he had to stitch or bandage cuts on his arms, it was slightly different, because even though he always wore long sleeves, it still was easier to notice something on the upper arms. On the sides, the calves, the back, the chest even, it was fine, the clothes were an armor that shielded enough. However he had a few difficulties with the thighs too. His jeans were all large on purpose, both to cover the bandages without making them bulge under the fabric and to not draw too much attention on his thin frame. But when he had injuries on his thighs, walking and worst, climbing stairs, made the pants rub against the damaged flesh, and it always made him wince. So he had to be careful, for that no one at school took note of the fact something was wrong.

Not that they didn't know.

Because  _everyone_ knew. The neighbors, the teachers, every... single person who just met him on the streets could tell with one glance that something was wrong. It was just so obvious, would he be walking slowly to avoid hurting himself more, limping a little sometimes despite his efforts to hide it; would he have visible bruises on his face; would that be just because of how... small, and thin he was, this characteristic backed up by his posture: he always looked at the floor, shoulders and head down, to make himself look even smaller, to make himself... invisible.

If people didn't see him, people didn't ask questions.

If they didn't see him, they didn't hurt him either.

His expert hands fulfilled a neat, precisely executed bandaging, and he did a few moves to test the solidity of the gauze dressing and evaluate the pain provoked by the gestures. The bandage was fine, perfect even. A qualified doctor won't have dealt with the problem better. As for the pain, well... if there was a magical solution to erase it, Edward would have actively search this from the moment he began to talk and walk.

He talked long before walking by the way, and did both well ahead of most other children. Not that the information was especially important. After all, he was ahead of people his age about _everything_.

Gifted.

But what good was that to be a genius, since he rotted here with his parents for single activity, scared to go out, scared to be in the house, scared at school, scared... all the time, every damn little microsecond of his existence. It was useless.

 _He_ was useless, everybody repeated it enough, it meant that must be true.

 _Not because everyone says something means it's necessary the truth_.

Eddie smiled a bit when the quote floated in his mind his response to his self-blaming thoughts. At least he had the library.

Edward loved science. He _loved_ learning, his inquisitive nature taking over all the time. He was in _need_ to discover more, to challenge himself with complex theorems and concepts, to drink from all this knowledge his impressive intellect was able, even at a young age, to fully apprehend.

He wanted to understand.

To understand everything. What happened exactly in a given situation, what were the forces in charge... How, when, what, who... and his favorite, _why_. Why things happened that way, why the world was like that, why leaves were green, why the sky was blue, why the human eye couldn't see things other living beings could, why was philosophy built like that, why, why, why, why... everything.

He carefully transferred the shattered glass from the edge of the sink to the trash can in the bathroom, washed every stain of blood that remained on the surface of the sink, and put back all the medical utensiles at their place in the cupboards. Then he descended from his small elevated spot, and the cracked mirror went back at being too high for him. He knew he was a bit under the regular size for someone his age, but... really, _who_ was the silly designer who conceived a bathroom furniture with a mirror too high to reach for a seven years old boy?! That was so stupid.

Seven years old.

His body was this age. Yet he was four grades ahead of his age at school, yet he was bored out of his mind with the professors, all unable to teach him anything he didn't already know far better than them and since way back already. He should be in high school, may he would learn something there. Maybe. No, in fact he didn't even count on that.

He wanted to go to college. May there he would be among people almost as smart as he was. Almost. Perhaps.

Coming with the superior intellect, the narcissistic personality disorder was a weak spot many geniuses were victims of. Ed loved science, but he enjoyed psychology as well. Everything was so very interesting, and studying the area allowed him to make a lot of self-diagnosis about his own condition. He was still looking for answers, he didn't fulfill this investigation for now. Why was his brain working like that? What happened in his gray cells, what regions of his brain were more developed than the others, what percentage of his cognitive capacities was he using on a regular basis? Because no doubt, none of what happened in his brain belonged to the... normal, average functioning. What connections, at a neurobiolological level, were differents in his brain from the ones of other people his age, and... other people in general, to explain why his intellect was so vivid, his memory so wide and precise, and his deduction skills already so sharp?

For this like for the rest, he wanted to know. He wanted to understand.

Edward didn't take much time to fall asleep that night. Looking at the old, cracked ceiling in his bedroom, he was pondering yet he was also _exhausted_ and weak after the beating of this evening. That meant no sleepless night tonight, and it was a good thing because his body needed to rest to recover enough strength to start the regenerative process of his damaged cells.

He was thinking of the universe and a way to calculate how the gravitational pull must change depending on the star at the center of a solar system, relying on the important variations between a star like the sun (a dwarf yellow star) and for example a blue giant or a white dwarf star to take two extremes. How was gravity operational depending on these elements, what needed to be kept in mind for the calculus, what the gap between Earth's circumference and planets around a giant or a dwarf star must be like...

Precise math formulas and physics theorems flickered before his closed eyelids, along with beautiful representations of a colorful, stylish universe in a night sky, taking him away, even just for a few hours, from the miserable, frigid world he lived in.

It was so nice, regardless of all his problems and how terrified he was just to _live_ , to still be allowed to dream.

And tonight, even though he didn't know much about him and only heard his name earlier today for the first time, he dreamed of 'Batman' too. The name echoed in his head at some point; a whipser in the dark sounding like a soft, warm greeting, that someone murmured tenderly, somewhere in a part of his mind. And despite the ache caused by his recent injuries, he only had nice dreams that night.

_______________

 

 _"... Once again, on the crime scene was found a sharp metal piece in the shape of a bat, and a group of witnesses affirm they saw a black mass flying out of this section of the hospital before it exploded_.", the journalist was saying on the television. " _The vigilante calling himself the 'Batman' seems once again involved in an accident, this time implying a fire leading to an explosion at Gotham General, causing thirty-two deaths and fourteen hurt people at a critical state. We don't know what is at the origin of the attack, for now the investigation only_..."

His father changed the channel, to Edward's greatest frustration.

"It was interesting.", he protested, turning angrily to the man slumped on the sofa. "Can you please come back to the..."

"Shut da'fuck up.", the older one grumbled as he started zapping between the channels.

Edward looked away, vexed, but didn't add anything or tried to argue.

It was pointless, he learned that since way back.

The television at his father's place had six channels, and the man settled for an old comedy instead of interesting stuff like what happens in the rest of the State. Ed refrained himself from letting out a frustrated huff, and stood up from his spot on the floor, his back against the foot of the couch as away from his father as he could in the small living-room.

"Where are you going?!", the man immediately asked aggressively.

"In my room.", he answered, trying to sound the most innocent and less defiant possible. "Homeworks...", he justified faintly, not that it ever convinced his dad to let him go when he didn't want to, but he had no other real reason to offer.

But apparently the guy was tired enough today not to ask for more from him, because he shrugged with a grunt, and looked back at the screen.

"Get out, then.", he concluded flatly, and Edward didn't wait for more, he quickly disappeared in his bedroom, shutting the door closed behind him.

For some obscure reason, his father asked him to stay around during the evenings when he watched TV. Not always to beat him up or insult him, he wasn't hitting him daily after all, but he liked... having him there, as a _reminder_ of his position. Like he was his dog or something and needed to be taught at every occasion who was the master here.

Edward forced the fury to cool of. There was no need to stay angry now he was in his bedroom. He hated his father with every fiber of his being, but he couldn't _do_ anything about it, other than feeling this burning rage inside him every day, every time he saw the other man, so even more whenever they... interacted in some way.

He sat on his bed.

It was not a proper 'bed', since the thin mattress was simply placed on the floor, but it had two pillows, sheets and blankets on it, so he called the mattress bed nonetheless.

He may loathed the house he lived in since his birth, the feeling wasn't as strong in his bedroom. The space was... his. Even if he couldn't truthfully call it a 'private space', given the fact his father stepped in every time he wanted to beat him while he was in his room, or his mother entered inside to scream over an unknown subject or accuse him of something he did, said, or provoked, that caused his father's ire.

His mother... The rage was back in full force at the mere idea of her.

Edward had turned eight years old in September this year, and they currently were in December. Tomorrow it will be a full month since his mother left. Not a word, not a note, not a goodbye, not... anything. He never felt anything else than hatred towards her, for being indifferent, for locking him in the closet, for screaming at him, for blaming him for having been put pregnant by his father as if _he_ was the responsible one for his existence! As if he ever wanted any of this anyway...

So well, he always hated her. But not as much as he hated his father.

The bruises due to punches, the cuts from shattered glass, the cigarette burns and the slaps from the belt that sometimes _split_ his flesh leaving a bleeding wound, all of these were from his father, not his mother. Her she just... insulted him. Slapped him a few times too, but never anything close to the beatings he received from his dad.

Albeit the insults were harsh.

Edward's pride bruised even easier than his skin. She was the one who started most of the verbal abuse. His father just called him 'moron' from his birth, but he learned a few other sympathetic nicknames, such as 'failure', 'disappointment', 'bastard child', 'faggot', and... _cheater_ , from his mother.

Cheater.

He hated that one even more than the already very _hurtful_ rest.

He was not a cheater. He was smart, brilliant, intelligent, clever. He didn't cheat for that. He was gifted. He was a _genius_. He never stole that ability! It was his, he didn't pay for it, he didn't steal for it, he didn't... buy it or took it from someone. It has his. It was _him_. The only thing he _was_ , the only thing he truly valued, the only thing that made him... alive.

Outside of his mind, he was just a pathetic, terrified little boy unable to do anything or to walk anywhere without jumping out of his skin at the smallest contact, waking up at the slightest sound heart pounding, being... so _scared_ , all the time. As for the rest? His body was weak, both as a result of being undernourished his all life long, never sleeping well, freezing every winter because living in a poor district, and being continually physically abused. All of this backed up by a natural fragile health, against the one he knew he couldn't have done much even if he had grown in a different surroundings. And sure thing, the chronic asthma added to the package, since he couldn't perform a too strong physical effort for too long without needing his inhaled corticosteroids.

There was one very... not intellectual expression to qualify all of this and his current thoughts about it: it _sucked_.

Edward wasn't one to use insults much, even mentally. He didn't appreciate the sound of bad words, because he heard them enough outside, and they were often directed at _him_. But he didn't like curses either. He always despised the way they seemed to deform the language, to turn it into something... wrathful and messy. When someone is angry, they should use sarcasm and clever words to make fun or to attack their opponent, proving by this mean their mastery of the language and their dominance over the situation. They should not deprecate themselves by... insulting the adverse party, like savages about to jump at each other's throat in the following minute.

Not that he had much experience in that field.

The rare times he tried to answer to his father or his bullies, it ended up in a beating far worse than what he would have gained if he just kept his mouth shut. So now... he didn't respond. He bit his lip, gritted his teeth, clenched his fists and desperately tried to hold back the tears. But he didn't push the provocation when he knew he was about to get beaten to a pulp.

This was harder than it may seem for him. He played provocative by nature, even if he had no resources to respond when the fight turned physical. Such a cruel irony, to care so much about his ego and be so prompt to react and put himself in dangerous situations, while he was not able to defend himself afterwards because his body lacked of any appropriate physial strength.

He sighed, and tried to brush the thoughts away.

To distract himself, he rather took hold of the cardboard box he kept near to his mattress, at the location where a bedside table would be in a conventional bedroom.

He didn't own much, his clothes and his schoolbag were stitched everywhere, almost as much as his body was, and there were no toys in the bedroom, no posters or pictures on the walls, no carpet on the cold floor, no electronic material of any sort either, would these be related to music, a phone, a computer, a television or anything of that kind.

The _day_ he could afford it, Edward wanted a computer.

He trained at the school's library whenever he had access to one, and what was obvious already is that he _loved_ computers and was very skilled with them.

Although using books was fine by him for now. He didn't own any, they were too expensive, but he spent all his days between the library at school and the one in town, learning about physics, psychology, maths, philosophy, politics and everything he found. His birth town was not a big city, but the library contained various kind of informations and was revamped enough for him not to be bored and to _learn_.

Edward took what he was looking for out of the box.

Newspapers.

He did the calculations, and collected every little piece of information he heard in the television or could find via computers, in a detailed file inside his brain.

His brain, this lovely hard drive inside the one everything was logged from the _moment_ he saw or heard it. This was at the same time a blessing and a curse: he never forgot anything.

He _physically_ could never forget anything. His brain worked like that: he could organize the informations, or at least try to, and create separated files to keep in mind what was important and push what was insignificant in another room of his mental architecture. But he could never... forget. What good was that to know the woman walking on the sidewalk close to him earlier this morning had a black and white cat given the hair stuck on the blue cotton pantyhose she wore to match her white and blue dress? Who cared about that and a _tide_ of other useless informations of that kind?! Certainly not him. But because he _saw_ it, and his brain made the links and deductions, he will never forget about it. And the examples only multiplied every passing minute, with everything every day.

Either ways, right now he was not complaining.

On the contrary, he was making great use of his impressive cognitive activity.

Batman.

That was how he was named, how the medias called him.

Edward eyed the few articles he kept about the mysterious vigilante who appeared in Gotham nearly four years ago.

Four years.

Ed was certain of the calculation now.

What happened in Gotham didn't always travel past the city's borders to arrive to the ears of the small towns nearby. Not everything, at least. There was just too much to relay. However, when the local informations talked about what happened around, the biggest town of the State always had the major spotlight.

Corruption, mob wars, gangs, questionable politics, doubtful affairs, the police involved either in a successful arrest or, more often, in sordid activities... The news were numerous, and the image that appeared from the town was that the place never slept, was always _running_ , full of changes and movements, as a giant anthill in the one activities abounded.

Until now, the daily life of the people in Gotham had only been evoked very briefly on TV and arrived by glimpses to Edward's town. But since a few times over the last two months, something _changed_ in the streets of Gotham City, and attracted more attention than previously from more medias. It was a little something that _transformed_ the town's spirit itself.

Batman had a sidekick.

Until now, the vigilante's existence, if acknowledged, has never been really... displayed out loud, or not like that. The first time Edward heard about him nine months ago, rare were the people who talked about Batman, and then again the informations were anything but precise. Just... allusions here and there in the medias. While now he investigated a bit and made links watching reports and searching via the library's computers, it appeared that the man dressed as a bat, flying in the night of Gotham City, has been around for much longer than the topic was discussed in his village.

He found the first official evocation, of this strange hero in the Gotham press: the mysterious entity took the cape and cowl when Edward was just past five years old.

Yet nobody truly spoke about it in his town. Even now, as a eight years old boy, he only heard about Batman by short insights on the news, and slices of conversations here and there in the school's corridors, coming from pupils who followed more actively life in Gotham City. Maybe inside Gotham itself all of this was more precisely and daily evoked, and a topic people easily pondered over and shared about. It seemed highly probable indeed, that the people living in the town in question knew a lot more about Batman than the inhabitants living in the rest of the State.

Yet a change in this entity's line of conduct drew an increased attention on him for the previous two months: the arrival of a young boy, a... child, by his side. Wearing a bright yellow and green uniform, an acrobat who must be around ten years old appeared out of nowhere one night, fighting side by side with the masked man. This caused people to talk more about the duo, and the news spread more broadly in the State from then.

Batman and Robin.

Eddie smiled. Learning about them was like keeping himself ahead of the news of a truly both thrilling and intriguing story. Every time he could grab a bit about what happened in Gotham City, he felt like he was... alive. He was _content_ whenever he heard about Batman and now Robin, and this was far from being a feeling he experienced daily or easily.

This unpredictable happiness took over him every time he thought of the caped crusader and imagined his fights, his story, what he must be doing in Gotham and the allure he must have, flying in the sky, black shape against the dark night. These thoughts never failed to cheer him up when he felt depressed, and they kept him from _breaking down_ and giving up on this world that never brought him nothing but pain before.

He wanted to investigate, to discover more about this phantasm which, slowly but surely, became his hero.

Batman, the caped crusader of Gotham City.

He regularly saw the town in his dreams, now. Last night again, he was on a rooftop in this city he never stepped in yet, looking up at the stars in the sky, when the night got filled with a black, massive silhouette flying like a giant bat, and two luminous white eyes looking down to him stood out in the darkness of the surroundings. It was not frightening despite what the description might look like. No, instead it was... comforting.

Everything about Batman felt comforting.

It happened more and more often, that he dried the tears on his cheeks and managed to smile, comforted by the simple idea of Batman, and newly _Robin_.

Who were they, the two of them, what were they truly fighting for, why were they doing it, who else was behind the organization, were they alone, where did the equipment they use come from, did they design everything themseleves, what was their true relationship with the weird group of 'rogues' in town, were they really allies to the police as they claimed to be, or were the citizens right to worry over their safety when they were around?...

His smile increased as he looked at a picture, taken by a school girl during a fight. The witness had enough bad luck –or good luck depending on the point of view–, to meet Poison Ivy in a street and put herself in a potentially mortal situation, when she got saved by the intervention of the vigilante and his young sidekick. The picture taken and given to the press was neat enough, and Ed memorized the interview led with the girl as it was described in the paper.

" _Batman and Robin saved my life tonight_.", she had answered to how she _felt_ about what happened, as the young journalist Vicky Vale asked her. " _I know a lot of rumors circulate about them and many say we can't trust them. I thought the same before that day, but now I realize I've been wrong, and these rumors are just coming from people who don't understand who they are. They are not ennemies. They_ saved _me, and I am not the only one they saved so far! I know we can trust them. I know we_ must _trust them. I claim it out and loud, and I wish more people could do the same: I believe in Batman and Robin_."

Such praise, Edward thought.

How great it must be to be someone's hero... To _be_ a hero to begin with, to be recognized for what you do and what you represent, to be... the person people have faith in. To be a lighting point in the dark, even when your costume is one made of shadows.

And Batman had a Robin, now. If he had one, why not another one? Eddie smiled more broadly, _blushed_ even, a little, at the lovely prospect. Not that he was suddenly going to become an acrobat, of course not, but... he was smart. Really smart. And he was also very skilled with a computer, furthermore he never forgot a thing. This could be more than a valuable asset in a detective work, couldn't it be? And he would learn about everything else that could be useful. He _wanted_ to, more than anything. Because he had no doubt he could _do_ something, he almost felt the _need_ to participate, to get involved in this life in Gotham, in his way and at his level.

He was convinced he could work for that. He was gifted, he had the mental, the cognitive abilities, plus he was a very quick study and an excellent problem solver.

Edward couldn't help but dream over all of this. Over this phantasm of... a life with Batman. A fiction he created in his head, of meeting the vigilante and being... allowed to stay with him. It was a dream, not a reality, and he was aware of it. But... he had the right to dream, no one was going to take that away from him.

He loved dreaming.

Dreaming was what made the harsh reality lighter, was what made the pain hurt less. Despite his young age, his mind was an adult's by many means, and not only in a positive vision. For example, he _knew_ he would have killed himself months ago if he wasn't allowed to dream.

He was aware Batman became his lifeboat. His lighting point, driving him through the night, keeping him alive.

______________

 

Blood dripped from his split lip, and Edward winced at the sensation, before wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

His school books were ruined, his shirt was torn, his face bruised and his ribs hurt from the kicks.

It was a miracle nothing was broken. His body may was a fragile little thing on the outside, he was convinced the bones beneath his skin were more solid than the average; because the level of injuries, kicks, blows, shocks and traumas they could suffer without breaking was impressive.

Sure, he broke a few bones over his nine years of existence in the world. Ankles? Two times the right one, one the left one. Arms? Two different fractures on the left one. Three ribs broke from kicks already, his nose was at its fourth going-back-to-place session, his right shoulder dislocated three times, and one time the left one. But everything healed, impressively well too, with no permanent damages or aftereffects. Once the bones healed, the impact of the fracture disappeared completely and the area wasn't sensitive anymore. His skeleton repaired itself impressively fast and with no collateral damages or further complications.

He healed fast, meaning he could take more beatings. It was as if his body adapted itself in reaction to the physical pain, and concluded it needed an optimal reparation system to survive.

It was kind of an advantage. Sort of.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He was at school, and just received a beating from a group of his dear schoolmates.

Sometimes he felt like he hated his bullies just as much as his father.

Because if it had been only his father, then he'd be scared to go back to the house in the evening, and will only ache at his parents' home. While because of these... schoolmates, the insecurities and the feeling of never being safe _anywhere_ , grew stronger than it would have if he stayed at having to deal with his father –and that was already a lot.

He read about that in one of the numerous psychology books he took his knowledge from: the increased fear of your surroundings, linked to painful experiences.

Thinking about the laws and the chemical reactions it provoked in the brain appeased him. It was logical: a feeling induced by the activation of a region of his fabulously complex organ, and reinforced by the duration of the constant trauma lived elsewhere. He also read that it was not a... lasting effect. Children who developed these habits could heal from it, for example when they were adopted after suffering from abuse in their birth home, or on the contrary having been victim of abandonment for multiple reasons, and then healed in the company of a social group, would that be at the contact of a family or with people close to 'friends'.

Edward wished he had a share of one of these experiences.

Despite his quite  _sharp_ judgements on people, he couldn't shake away the thought that maybe, just maybe, life would be easier if he had a friend.

A small smile formed on his lips.

He whined for no reason there. He _had_ a friend. A very dear one.

That this friend was a vigilante from another city in his State, dressed like a giant bat and hunting villains across town in the night, plus of course having no idea of who Edward is, didn't mean Batman was not a friend.

More than that. Batman was his _hero_.

Just thinking about him cheered him up.

A last quick glance at the state of his face in the mirror, and he concluded he could go to the infirmary ask for a few medicine. He didn't when he got hurt by his dad, because even though people were oblivious, he couldn't just walk in and say 'hi, I've just been beaten to death by my loving, caring father, and I'm out of bandages or sewing supplies to repair the damages. May I borrow yours?'. Nope, what happened inside his parents' house must stay, if not hidden because everyone around knew what happened in there, at least not _screamed out loud_. It could only get him into more troubles.

But, quite recently, he discovered that when he got beaten at school –high school now, he managed to graduate this year–, he  _could_ ask for medical supplies, and these were given to him for free. That was an advantage: thanks to high school, he reduced the medical budget. A good thing done, because even though his father always payed to fill the stocks when Edward was out of material, the man _protested_ first, and often argued that Ed had no need to use so many stuff to hide the bruises.

Eddie managed to take a job at a video club in the city a few months ago too, so now he even had a little income. It wasn't much, but it was more than he ever owned.

To the point that for the first time this Christmas, he bought himself a small box of chocolates. It has been his best Christmas so far.

"What happened?", the nurse asked when he opened the door, looking up from her fashion magazine.

"George and his group.", Ed answered simply. "Can I use the other room?"

"... Make yourself at home."

He nodded gratefully, and went to the attached room where the school sickbay kept the supplies.

He was lucky no one was there today. When it was the case, Ed had to wait for whoever pretented to have a stomach ache or was faking a pain somewhere just to dodge a test in a class to _leave_ , before he could go on with his routine.

In this place he simply closed the door shut and could take his jumper off without fearing someone might see, the nurse knocked every time so he couldn't be surprised. It didn't take long, with expert hands more than used to the gestures, to treat the new bruises.

Elizabeth Shannon looked up when he exited the room. From the fashion magazine, she switched to a mushy novel in the mean time.

"Feeling better?", she asked with the typical tone of someone who knows they asked a meaningless and stupid question yet doesn't know what else to inquire.

"... Yes.", Edward lied once again, like he did after every time she asked him if everything was okay and he responded by the affirmative. "I'm fine."

She addressed him a small smile that looked almost like an apology.

What her brown eyes seemed to say behind her round glasses was 'I'm sorry, kid. I really wish I could do something. But I can't'. And Ed wasn't even angry at her for thinking that, for not even considering she could perhaps  _try_ to help. On the contrary, he appreciated her. She was nice with him: she let him use the infirmary when he needed to, and let him borrow medical supplies when he asked for something. Sometimes he even went to the infirmary during lunch time, and she allowed him to stay in the waiting room when she was busy with a student. It was safe. Just for that, he liked the change to high school.

For the rest, everything remained the same whatever grade he was in: his teachers were incompetents who couldn't say a single thing he didn't know about already, his grades were perfect without him even pretending to be trying, everything was just too _easy_ and if it wasn't for all the researches he made as his personal activities, about various subject areas, he'd be bored to death by simply listening to classes. And as for his social life, it was no different from what it used to be in his previous grades: a group of bullies to harass and kick him daily was apparently the norm at school, whatever the grade, for the sole reason he was the nerd on the top of the class, younger than the rest of his classmates, and skinny little redhead.

"What are you reading about lately?", Elizabeth asked then, and pointed to the chair in front of her desk in an inviting manner.

Edward smiled, grateful.

"What we know about the chemical composition of black holes and the differences we observe between the ones born after the death of a star when the core crumbled after a supernova explosion; and black holes that seem independents from a primal transformation of structure linked to status changes."

"... I definitely understood every word you said and I master the area already.", she commented, and he smiled. "But care to give me a little reminder, in case this comes up in a conversation, for that I would know what to respond?"

He sat on the chair, feeling very happy now, and started to talk about his new subject research. He knew Elizabeth Shannon was not genuinely interested, but sometimes she asked him nevertheless, what he was studying and if he wanted to discuss it. He loved these moments, they were always a good occasion for him to prove his intellect. What should it matter that his audience didn't understand much of it and was just asking to be polite, not by desire to hear a complete and detailed analysis of theoretical physics? He was in his field, and he could _talk_ about it to someone who didn't cut him off, neither started yelling or punching.

This was more than he ever asked for.

__________

 

Things may were what they were, a few data stayed profitable and were even _good news_ in the middle of the daily pain. For example, it could have been far worse if Edward wore _glasses_. Otherwise, the budget spent to _fix_ them after every beating would have become astronomical over the years. Furthermore it probably hurt more to be punched in the face when wearing glasses, because the metallic branch could cut the skin on the side of the head, behind the ear or on the top of the nose of people wearing spectacles. And it must be very constraining, along with kinda _scary_ to feel glass breaking at a spot so close to the _eyes_ , even when the glass didn't shatter like a mirror.

A boy he knew was being tormented in high school by his same bullies experienced these inconveniences, both the pain linked to the blows when wearing glasses and the budget coming as a result. The said other boy obviously invested a lot in constantly fixing the damages. Even without knowing him, Ed noticed the cracked state of the glass, the adhesive tapes on the branchs and how the boy regularly came to school with new glasses, only to have them broken before the end of the week. So yes, seeing this Edward was definitely glad he didn't need glasses.

Eddie never interacted with the boy who had no classes in common with him, and he was no interested by doing so. But he met him a few times at the infirmary, when his fellow comrade walked in with his nose bleeding, spitting blood from his mouth where he wore a dental appliance, and his glasses broken. He was a ginger too, apprently this type was the most praised preys to hunt down there. The boy was the normal age to be in high school, and not in Edward's grade, so they never talked to each other much when they met at the sickbay.

One day though, Ed asked him his name, when they had to share the make-up supply of the infirmary to hide bruises on their cheek and the side of their face. Eddie much preferred being alone when doing so, but it currently was playtime and he had a test in physics in less than twenty minutes, so he couldn't exactly wait for the older redhead to finish before going through the routine himself.

The boy seemed surprised to be asked, and he blushed in a way that could have been called 'cute' if Edward payed attention to these sort of things. What, being now a ten years old, he most certainly didn't.

"I... don't like it much.", the boy responded, looking down. "Hu... I want to change it."

Ed raised an eyebrow. He had asked to pretend to be polite, but he was not really paying attention or much interested in learning this boy's name. But the unexpected answer tickled his curiosity.

"I want to change mine too.", he informed him consequently, before the other could add anything.

Ed nurtured the idea for a while now, and took longer to find THE best name. But now he knew how he wanted to be called. It was also the first time he admitted this to anyone.

The boy looked surprised.

"You want to change your name?", he repeated, actually enchanted, certainly to find someone who shared the ground with him and was therefore able to understand.

"My last name.", Ed specified, feeling glad he was given the occasion to talk about it. "It's... my parents', and I don't want to be called like my parents. I love my first name, though."

He smiled a little, then greeted a bit formally:

"I'm Edward."

"... I want to change both.", the boy as for him responded instead of giving him a name in return, like it would have been conventional to do. "The last _and_ the first name."

Oh... that was indeed something Ed didn't share the opinion about. 'Nashton' always sounded alien when he was called by his parents' name, and he never identified to it. While 'Edward' was... him. He loved his first name, it was his identity, his reference, his... logical label. Edward. Genius. Loves riddles, Batman and science.

Only the last name needed to change, because he didn't want to wear a family name belonging to a family he never wanted to be part of, and that never wanted of him in return.

Nashton was going to disappear.

But _Edward_ had always, and will always be him. He loved it.

"What do you want for last name?"

Ed was about to make him notice he should introduce himself before asking further questions, that would have been far more polite. On the other hand, he was so _glad_ to be payed attention that way, he didn't waste time to tell for the first time:

"Nygma. I love... mysteries, investigations, solving problems and all that. I love riddles. I found the name last year, when I earned the first prize after I won the school's puzzle contest.", he claimed proudly, waiting for an impressed comment.

"... I wasn't there last year.", the taller one revealed, almost sorry to have to say it, because he saw it seemed important for him.

Well that was a bit disappointing.

"There was a contest.", Ed explained so, feeling like he had just been deprived of a glorious moment of praise. "Solving a puzzle that seemed impossible to solve in a very limited time. I participated. And I solved it. The prize was a book of riddles. I always loved detective works, but I fell in love with riddles last year."

"That's very cool.", the boy approved gently. "You must be smart."

"Oh, I am!", he boasted, pleased with the way this exchange turned in the end. "I'm a genius. Like.. for real, I'm not making that up. I've been _tested_ , I have one of the highest I.Q. ever recorded."

The older one blinked, apparently not expecting this demonstration of self-satisfaction, but answered nicely:

"I believe you. How old are you? You don't at all look like a high school student, I bet you skipped grades?"

"Indeed. I'm ten."

"Ten?!"

Edward realized he wanted people to look at him like that. Looking... impressed, by things he said, did, and what was best in that: impressed by _him_. By who he was, entirely. He liked this look on his comrade's face. He wanted to see it more often, on more persons.

"Nygma?", the other boy quoted afterwards. "You want to be called... Edward Nygma?"

"Yes...", he answered, feeling a strange warmth blooming inside his heart at the name.

Someone said it out loud. He repeated the name for himself because he loved it and was now sure it was _his_ name, what he wanted to keep in the future.

But it was the first time... someone _else_ called him by his name.

He felt a joy of a kind he never experienced before.

"It's very pretty.", the boy commented.

He definitely was a sympathetic person, Ed must concede it to him. And apparently a relatively clever one, too, because he added with a smile, clearly glad he put his finger on the peculiarity:

"... An E.Nygma.", he deduced, and Edward's smile grew wider.

"I don't think most people will get the trick.", he admitted. "Despite the appearances, you don't seem too dumb."

"Hu... thank you? I guess..."

"You're welcome.", the younger one assured with pride.

The bell rang and Edward left quickly, his make-up only half finished and a purple bruise, standing out on his pale skin, still printed on the right side of his forehead, just at the root of his orange hair.

But he saw the boy again after this.

They ate together at the canteen the following week.

"Music Meister.", he introduced as they were sitting in front of each other at a table.

His cheeks turned red with joy as he got to say it, when Ed asked naturally what name he could use to refer to him.

"That's... that's how I want to be called.", he specified, the flush on his cheeks increasing, now looking like someone spread a puree of dark red cherries on his freckled face.

"Music Meister.", Edward repeated, judging him with an incredulous glance. "Is this a... stage name or something?"

"No.", he clarified, his happiness to voice the appellation turning into a slight _embarrassment_ , as a result of Ed's suspicious reaction. "I want it to be my... real name. Like, the one written on my identity card, and how people call me when they address me."

"... You want people to call you 'Music Meister'.", Ed quoted again. "And... does everyone have to use the full name each time? Because if we separate the terms, it becomes even... weirder than it already is."

"No, don't worry!", the older one countered, a faint smile back on his lips. "I thought of that too. So... my friends can call me Mich."

"Mich is short for Michel.", Edward mechanically corrected.

"Well it could be short for Music Meister as well!", the other student defended with more convictions. "I don't see why not. 'Alex' is short for Alexander, Alexandra, Alexei, Alexanne... all the variants. 'Jo' is short for Joseph, Joanna, Jonathan, Johnny... And there are many other examples, for almost _every_ name. Even some of the short ones have their attached nickname. It works reversal too, a single name can have different nicknames. How do people call you usually, Edward? Ed? Eddie? Diddie?"

"Ed or Eddie.", he responded. "And I like both, along with my full name. Although I never heard the last option you evoked... And I _don't want_ to hear this offensive thing ever again.", he concluded on a categorical, almost dramatic tone of voice that made the other smile more frankly.

"I promise, I won't use it."

They ate lunch together over the following three weeks.

Edward never brought himself to call the boy –he learned at some point that his birth name was Ludovic Harris– by his chosen appellation of 'Music Meister'. It was just too odd. But he called him Mich instead, and it always seemed to make his comrade happy. He was smart too. Not at Edward's level, very far from it, but then again no one was quite like him, he was convinced of it.

But Mich was clever, and he liked puzzles. No surprise there, he was also a big fan of _musics_ , and even if Ed never thought of the area as particularly important before, he discovered with him a new field for the one he had never been interested previously. Eddie loved learning, and even if music was not a favorite topic, he adopted it as a new subject area to explore.

During three weeks, it almost looked like they were friends. None of them ever had any, so they didn't discuss the possibility out loud or talked about it that way, but from the outside it... most certainly looked like they were buddies, and the feeling was a nice one, for the two of them.

Then, a month later, Mich moved to another part of the country, like he did since his birth. Edward has been envious when he told him he never spent more than eight months at the same place, and travelled since his youngest age, because of his parents' job. While as for him, Ed lived in the same house since his birth, and he never even went to the next _village_. He dreamed of Gotham City because it was the big town of his State, and where his hero lived. But he also wanted to see... everything else, not just this place. He wanted to _travel_. He wanted to learn on the field, to discover new things by seeing new surroundings. Yet he was stuck there, in this small town in the countryside he never left not even for an excursion during one afternoon.

So he felt a bit jealous when Mich told him about all the places he visited. Jealous but _interested_ at the same time, so the curiosity to hear more about these places won over the jealousy.

And when Mich moved again, he didn't feel jealous but... disappointed.

He wished he would have stayed a little longer, that he would have at least finished the school year.

They said each other goodbye the day before his departure. They won't keep in touch, they didn't even think about writing letters to each other. They never even evoked the possibility they could be 'friends', so they won't keep this kind of contact.

"Maybe we'll meet again.", Mich proposed, hopeful.

"Yes, maybe.", Ed simply approved, even if he didn't believe that.

Mich was going to forget about him anyway, and the only reason Edward won't is because he physically couldn't. For the rest, they never did anything together, they just ate lunch at the same table. So he nurtured no illusions: his comrade won't remember him, he will forget him as soon as he'll leave the town. It was unlikely he kept him in mind.

"Good luck.", the older ginger concluded. "For... everything. I hope things will turn out okay for you eventually."

"Same.", Edward replied sincerely. "Take care of you... Music Meister."

It was the first time he called the other by his chosen name, and Mich smiled happily.

Then they shook hands, quite formally, to end their goodbye. They may weren't friends, they had been glad to share a small slice of life together. It made high school easier for both of them, even if just for a short period.

None of this was sad, on the contrary. Yet Edward found himself... annoyed internally, after the other redhead left. And the tomorrow day, at lunch time, he caught himself staring at the empty chair in front of him, wishing his comrade was sitting there talking about musics and answering his riddles. This... blurred state, akin to a form of nostalgia, lasted a little during the following days. But soon he got over it. There was no need to miss this guy, since after all he was convinced he will never hear of 'Music Meister' again.

______________

 

Edward angrily wiped the tears, but new ones bursted out again as soon as he erased the stains left by the first wave.

It's not like he must hide it, or that he was ashamed to cry. He cried all the time, it was part of his daily routine. Fear, pain, tears. It was almost odd if he spent a full day without experiencing at least one of these.

But right now, he felt like he shouldn't be crying over... that. It was just a book, right? He shouldn't pay attention. He shouldn't be _crying_ over it as if it physically, deeply and personally hurt him.

Yet new tears rolled down his cheeks, and his shoulders shook under the sobs.

It was as if they broke a part of him when they tore the pages of the book. Why were they doing that?! What should it matter to them that he had only _one_ object he valued in his possession, that he grew attached to it and considered it his friend?! Why would they attack it?! Wasn't it good enough to kick him, insult him, ruin his bag and the rest of his already rare school material?! Why couldn't they just spare his _riddle book?!_ He wasn't even counting on being left alone, he understood that was impossible. He just wanted to keep his book safe... Please, just his _book_. Was that really too much to ask for?!

The tears gradually stopped, and he took the ruined vestige, his equally ruined schoolbag next to him. Even if he wasn't at school at the moment, he had no other bag, so he carried it with him everywhere. The bag's zipper was broken since a year and a half, but until now he managed to stitch the handles every time, close the splits and obtain a repaired enough backpack. Although today he didn't see what else he could do, after it had been once again ripped, leaving a wreck rather than a bag. It was so stitched everywhere no one could even remember its original color or what it looked like when he first bought it, now it looked like an old patchwork of fabrics not having the shape of anything anymore.

Not looking for too long at the poor bag, Eddie opened the book. The entire cover was torn despite its good quality, and only some pages escaped the disaster, most of them were not even readable anymore.

If they had just torn a page of it, like it happened couple of times already, Ed could have fixed it.

But no, today things needed to be taken to an all new _level_.

The school year was over, they currently were in a very hot middle of July, Edward was still this same ten years old high school student. And his birth town in the countryside housed a, quite pleasant he must recognize, space of nature he liked to go to when the weather was so hot.

A lake, not far from the city.

Most of the inhabitants of the town went to it when the sun was bright, so it was a bit too crowded for his liking during summer, but the lake itself was huge and offered many places to relax. So Edward simply avoided the large beaches on the banks, and rather went to a little spot he found years ago, a small pebbled creek, hidden by modest rocky walls, that was not visible from the beach nearby converted into a tourist zone.

When people used the creek already, he had to find another quiet place, but to be honest it was rare to find his favorite spot occupied. He liked to come here to read, or just to relax a little. It was... nice.

And today, a hot July afternoon when the beach was crowded, he had the pleasure to find his creek free, and carefully went down the path giving access to the little pebbled beach surrounded by its small rocky walls.

He actually fell asleep, what was quite unlike him, when just relaxing in a lying position on the beach. The scorching heat of this year helped the tiredness, and he was alone in a comforting, calm atmosphere, so everything appeared to be appropriate to take a nap.

Except that of course, not only things were never easy, but the universe often felt like it should give him a little more struggles. Because sure thing, a nap in the afternoon into nature during a sunny summer day was like an _affront_ , and he must pay for such a daring move. No wonder Ed didn't believe in religions or any stuff of that kind. Or maybe the other way around: if there was actually an unknown magical creature controlling or influencing faith, then this entity must hate him, or he must have offended it dearly during whatever previous life he lived. Consequently, he now had a karma bigger than his ego.

Charming phrasings to get to the fact his school bullies elected his spot during the afternoon to come smoke and drink, and they have been delighted to find out they could use a little extra fun when they discovered him on the beach.

A typical and recurrent scene later, Edward was still on the beach after they finally left, where he could count his bruises and mourn over the victim they made this time.

They had their cigarettes with them, so despite Ed's pleas to leave his book alone, not only they played with it as if it was a ball, but after tearing the pages, one of them took his lighter out of his pocket and set it on _fire_ , just a little, then quickly kicked it in the water, shutting off the fire and laughing at the reactions this provoked, before dumping it farther in the lake.

A chance the teenager didn't throw the book with much force, because if it landed at a spot Ed would be neck deep in the water, he couldn't even have _tried_ to save what was left.

Because Edward loved his pebbled beach, and came at the lake since forever. Yet he never went further than putting his feet into the water during the warmer days of summer. The rest of the time, he only came there to take a break from the routine, but never to swim. He never tried. He couldn't undress by fear of someone passing by who would see the state of his body, and even without that, he almost constantly had at least one fresh wound that needed more time to scar. So he couldn't risk an infection by going into the lake's water.

The logical conclusion was that he never learned how to swim.

Not that he ever felt like he had to, either. Living in the countryside, he never saw the ocean. Gotham was a coastal city, but the little town he lived in? The only pool of water he ever had a contact with was the lake, and the farther he went was that time he walked until his calves were in the water during an extremely hot day. But that was the maximum immersion he ever practiced.

Eddie was glad none of his tormentors knew he couldn't swim, otherwise he was certain he would have ended being thrown in the lake more than once over the years.

Today though, he ventured farther into the water than ever, fully clothed except for his shoes, because he had an _objective_. His book floated in the gloomy grey-green liquid and he had water to up the waist, then at the _chest_ when he grabbed the object then quickly went back to the shore, heart pounding loudly and throat tight with apprehension. Not knowing how to swim yet venturing inside a large pool of water on his own, even to grab a thing that was accessible by walking with no swimming necessary, still was a scary experience and proved just how _attached_ he was to the said thing.

Given the state of what he collected however, it won't have made much difference if he let it drown in the bottom of the lake.

The rare pages that have not been burned or shredded were now soaked with water. Even if he went to rescue the book in the end, Eddie _hesitated_ before going farther than the ankles inside the water. And even though he felt like he dealt with the situation the best way he could have, the delay he spent convincing himself he could grab his book without risking to drown has been too long to hope collecting what he could have saved if he reacted faster.

Edward knew all the riddles in the book by heart.

He loved repeating them in his head, he liked the way they rolled on his tongue when he whispered them to himself at night, like a lullaby, to relax after surviving another day. He loved the pictures he now had of the words, he saw them dancing before his eyes every time he conveyed them, and he never had to search for his words when he recited a riddle. The book has been his friend for almost two years, he had the time to memorize everything, to assimilate every word of it until it became a part of him.

So of course, it wasn't like his bullies deprived him of an answer to a solution or condemned him to suspense by ruining his book.

But still, it... hurt.

He loved his book. He wrote inside it, too. The only material he possessed was for school, and he saved as much as he could every small space of paper in the notebooks, and used papers only to write the essays, for the rest he managed to take the courses with two notebooks by year, one for literature and one for science. He just had to read or see something to remember it, so no real need to carefully take in note everything a teacher said. On the contrary, he _knew_ way more than any of them in their subject area, so it wasn't difficult to pick what to keep and what to leave aside, to spare the more space possible and make his notebooks last longer.

Objectively speaking, the loss of the riddle book was not a disaster. Everything he wrote down in the pages were personal researches, or riddles he tried to create himself. These, and... little drawings, here and there, of a logo he saw on the news everywhere whenever he kept himself ahead of what happened in Gotham City. Little bats he drew on the corners of the pages, little names he tagged here and there, little notes he took of the informations he selected and wanted to see written down somewhere.

All of this was logged, precisely memorized inside his brain. But the book was the closest thing he had to something he was attached to, it was the first prize he ever gained, the only material gift he ever received. And he had such a good time discovering and solving the riddles at first, then enjoyed himself ever more as he memorized everything, made it... his, absorbed it and turned it into an actual part of his personality.

Since he loved the book, he also wrote his favorite maths formulas, physics theorems, and some quotes of his favorite philosophers across the pages. Reflexions he made here and there, things he thought of at a precise moment and wanted to talk about with someone, but since he couldn't do that, he wrote them in the pages of the large book instead. It was the only thing personal he owned. He glued pictures of Batman in the pages, these pictures he took from the newspapers when he could have access to them. He cut pieces of journals he found interesting, and put them inside the book, along with everything else he wanted to keep somewhere.

The book became something between a diary, a story book, clues for investigations about Batman, a treaty of physics, and a compilation of quotes.

It was all he owned, the only object he ever customized for his personal entertainment.

And now, the rigid cover with its question marks all over was torn and partly burned, both the original enigmas and his personal additions to the pages purely and simply disappeared, or were in a pitiful state.

Edward wanted to scream out of rage.

At the same time, he felt... sad. He didn't know if he was more sad or angry, the two feelings mixed in an explosive manner.

A miraculously preserved group of pages seemed recoverable. Among these, a picture of Batman taken by a journalist during a police investigation, that Edward glued to a page, in the blank space between a riddle and its answer. That was another thing he loved about the book: it was made like a children's book, or a fairy tale one. This meant it was large, with spacious pages of glossy paper, many illustrations and one riddle, a labyrinth, a reflexion or a problem by page. So Ed had plenty of space to write, draw and glue other things around the written spots.

And there, the upper part of the page was saved, with Batman's face under the riddle:

"You can see nothing else  
When you look in my face,  
I will look you in the eye  
And I will never lie."

The end of the page with the answer has been burned like the whole lower part of the book, but he knew everything by heart, he didn't need the written answer: 'your reflection'. This was what Batman personified to him: the reflection of a brilliant mirror put on a far better future, a future Edward _dreamed_ about and wanted to live more than anything.

And on the top of the page, even if the blue ink of the ball-point pen was now illegible because of the stay underwater, what remained of a little quote he found and loved: "H.O.P.E. = Hold On, Pain Ends"

He smiled a bit at Batman's stoic, stern face.

"I'm sorry.", he told him quietly. "The last thing I wanted is for you to get hurt."

Eight other pieces of pages were in a good state enough to be kept, but the rest has been too torn and damaged, keeping it would be ridiculous. And even if the cover was in a good shape enough too, most of it at least, it was more sad than anything to keep a cover that won't contain anything anymore. To have a facade but be empty inside.

So Eddie didn't insist on what was broken, and just kept the poor things that could be saved.

Damaged, hurt, but alive.

In the end, the book _really_ was a part of him. And despite the depressing undertone of the thought, Edward couldn't help but smile. He even _chuckled_ a little after a moment, now hugging tightly the pages he pressed against his heart, the picture of Batman on top of them.

Damaged, hurt, torn apart, broken.

But alive.

He could do it. He'll manage, he will survive and then he was going to achieve this goal he started to dream about _years ago_ now. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next year either. But he won't wait much longer. He won't stay here, rotting alone getting injuried every day for nothing in a city he hated. He won't die here. He won't be forgotten here.

On the contrary. He was going to concretize his childhood dream and transform it into a _reality_.

He will reach Gotham City. And once he'll be there, he'll invest himself into building a new beginning, starting a new life that will be far better than the one he'll leave behind.

Edward wanted this to work, more than anything he ever craved for. And it was not just a phantasm anymore. No, he _knew_ he could do it, and that he could _succeed_ at fulfilling his dream.

He  _will_ meet the Batman.

 


End file.
